


Dare to Touch the Sky

by madqueenofhellskitchen



Series: Eternal Red Strings [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU-Hobbits have Gifts, As in you don't need to have played Bioshock to read!, Asshole Thranduil, BAMF Bilbo, BAMF Hobbits, Bioshock Infinite Spoilers, Dark Magic, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, Gold Sickness, Kili wears a skirt guys it's all in good fun, M/M, Madness, Magic, Multiverse, Possessive Thorin, Reality Bending, Red String of Fate, Romance, Sassy Bilbo, Smaug is Songbird, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, Thorin Is an Idiot, True Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, bioshock infinite au, child kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madqueenofhellskitchen/pseuds/madqueenofhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bring us Bilbo Baggins and wipe away the debt", the hobbits told him. But no one told Thorin, heir of Durin's Line, that he would have to fight for his life in the Sky Elven Kingdom of Aduial. No one mentioned the mechanized dragon Smaug, or that he would have to resort to using elven magic to save his and Bilbo's lives. And no one certainly method one tiny little fact: that Bilbo had been kidnapped for his ability to warp space and time using Tears in the fabric of reality, a power that could change the world--a power King Thranduil wants to keep locked away in a tower forever. Now Thorin must learn whom to trust, how to stay alive, and fight off opposition--including the seeds of greed growing in his own heart telling him to take the hobbit to Erebor instead--if he and Bilbo are to survive. But Thorin's heart is calling out the truth, and in all honesty? Bilbo deserves love—and a home—after forty years away. And at this rate, Bilbo will certainly have love. </p><p>Oh, and no one mentioned his nephews were to be stowaways, either. Just great.</p><p>A Bioshock Infinite AU where Bilbo and Thorin get a real chance at happiness--even if it is among the clouds and the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare to Touch the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, friends, to the start of a new series from me! A Red-String/Multiverse AU of Bagginshield stories that have one goal--to show the worlds where Bilbo and Thorin were given a chance to live in happiness and love. Look on the series' webpage for a more beautiful description, really. 
> 
> We're starting with World One--a Bioshock Infinite AU. Like the tags said, you do not have had to play the videogame whatsoever to read the story! Many facets are taken from the game, obviously, but the plot is twisted in part to suit my own needs, obviously. 
> 
> A few things you all can expect: violence (because of dwarves), romance (because it's Bagginshield and Durincest), drama (because it's Thranduil) and lots of reality-bending and magic and axes. The story is being broken into three parts, but as you can see, each of the chapters is HELLA LONG. 
> 
> This will be updated frequently, but I will also be posting random one-shots to this series, too! So you really never know which story will come next in this series! :) But those that are started will be finished before any other long ones are started. You can also message me to request a prompt--an AU or story idea--you'd like to see in the series. You may also visit my Tumblr (http://ragingqueenunderthemountain.tumblr.com/) to do the same thing. 
> 
> Enjoy, friends. Comments, critiques, beta-readers, and discussion and kudos are always welcome. 
> 
> And may your circles be forever unbroken!

\----

_“There are loved ones in the glory_

_Whose dear forms you often miss._

_When you close your earthly story,_

_Will you join them in their bliss?_

_Will the circle be unbroken_

_By and by, by and by?_

_Is a better home awaiting_

_In the sky, in the sky?”_

_\- Will the Circle Be Unbroken?, as sung by Courtnee Draper in Bioshock Infinite_

\----

There is silence in the vastness of Erebor on the blissful spring day that has decided to grace the mountain with its presence on this day. Though every dwarf in the throne room knows that, deep down, this silence is not caused by the beautiful air wafting through open windows and doors; nor is it because of the flowers Lady Dis has started to grow out on the terraces, or the warming of hearts everywhere throughout the blessed stone kingdom.  


No, the silence that screams out in the throne room on this day is because of the small, yet strong, hobbit delegation that has come to visit King Thror and his family on this day—and because of the sentence their leader, Drogo Baggins, has just uttered:  


“Bring us Bilbo Baggins and wipe away the debt.”  


For his part, Thorin II, son of Thrain, son of Thror, merely blinked at the command while dressed in his royal blue garments, his feet at his grandfather’s right side, his father on Thror’s left, and did not bark a laugh at the halfling’s gall to talk to royalty like so. Drogo, short in statue, makes up for it in talk and steely green eyes as he stares down the king of the dwarrows, a walking stick being pushed into the ground with small, steely might. He is coming off as serious—as deadly serious a hobbit can be, Thorin’s mind supplies—and though staunch in stomach, everyone knows that the firmness of the words means Drogo will not budge.  


But Thorin is used to these small creatures not budging. For months, the hobbits have cavorted to and from the Shire and Erebor; for it was the hobbits, the one race out of them all on this Mahal-damned Middle Earth, which aided Thorin’s kin upon the instance of a disastrous winter just a little over half a year ago. He can still remember that winter, clearly; how the supplies to and from Dale ran short, but the men were too busy with their own kin to help the dwarrows; how the fever spread through the ranks of children, and Thorin was just relieved enough to see that his sister’s sons were spared from the torture of becoming sick, by some unknown blessing. He remembers the loss, the burying of his mother into the royal tombs when she just could no longer eat, and when there was less food to begin with; he remembers how Frerin kept their family going with songs and stolen ale and how Balin, kind Balin, adviser to his family, made sure to make extra blankets for them all whenever he had the chance while little Ori, brother of Dori, a friend of Balin’s, still just a babe, snuggled into his other sibling Nori’s arms, while Nori himself resorted to the darkest means to keep his family safe.  


For weeks, for months, Thorin wondered if his family, his home, would survive the endless snow, the possible endless winter. Fires were scarce, warmth—internal and external—was scarce and just when he started developing a cough, and he worried about his own place in the world, they arrived in droves.  


Hobbits.  


Dozens upon dozens, miraculously crossing the snow with a wizard named Gandalf in tow, trekked through the countryside on the pathways to Erebor, insisting upon helping their fellow beings.  


It had been Drogo who had personally led the group; Gandalf being only a smiling and silent guide for safety and peace, and Thorin, in his hazy sickness, for yes, the fever would strike at least one of the Durins, obviously, remembers how the then-appointed-Thain to the Shire took care of him personally. He remembers how food—so, so much surplus food and wood and water—was brought to his people in their most desperate hour, and how Thror actually bowed to each of them in thanks. And the hobbits taught them what plants to grow amongst the dead gardens, things that would actually survive, creating small sustenance in their souls, while creating tonics to cure the pain.  


Though they lost hundreds of dwarrows in those desolate five months—five! Truly such a winter must never come again, they claimed, Mahal spare them in the future—they endured. And by the end of it all, Thorin and his family knew that they owed the hobbits of the Shire a debt.  


And now they had come, in the beautiful spring, to claim it.  


But whereas Thorin had believed they would ask for gold, or jewels, things to aid them in prosperity…they were asking for something else entirely.  


And now, after a sprinkling of silence, Thror spoke up to clarify what Drogo was asking for.  


“You are asking for a person? Whatever for?”  


“Yes, great King. But not just any person,” Drogo paused, “I am asking for you to aid in my second cousin’s return to the Shire where he belongs.”  


“Well, where is he? Have you lost one of your kin that easily? Perhaps he is just hiding under a rock!” That was Frerin, with his smarmy attitude and red-blond locks, and Thorin gently elbowed his brother just as Drogo’s steely eyes turned on them both.  


“My cousin was kidnapped forty years ago, for your information, _Prince_.” The last word was a hiss of rage and tiny hands gripped a staff even tighter as a silence fell upon the throne room once more—because lost was lost, but being kidnapped…that was entirely different.  


“…Kidnapped, you say?” Thorin, ever the polite one, ever the heir to the throne, realized he needed to salvage this conversation from Frerin’s immaturity; calmly, he strode closer to Drogo, and the hobbit smiled, bowing his head in reverence—while Frerin snorted from behind—and Thorin returned the serious expression the halfling held, and yet there was a twitch of a smile there, as if he was recalling fond memories of someone long supposed dead or gone for good.  


“Aye, great Prince Thorin. Forty years ago, when Bilbo was just a child, he was taken from the home of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins in the dead of night.”  


“Do you know by whom? Surely, if this story is true, my kin and I can aid you in diplomacy and retrieve your cousin. Perhaps it would cost us a bit of gold, but I believe my grandfather would understand.” Thorin gazed over at Thror, who gave a solemn nod in understanding as the younger continued his statement, “After all, family is very important to the line of Durin—it is something vital, and to be cherished.”  


But at the question, Drogo had frozen, despite nodding his head in acquiescence that yes, he knew; he sucked in a breath and lifted his eyes to Thorin’s steely blue before speaking,  


“Thranduil. King of the Sky-Elves. He is the one who took my cousin.”  


And this time, there was no hush, no silence, but gasps throughout the court and Thorin instantly seized upon two emotions: shock, and anger.  


Because Thranduil, King of the Sky-Elves, was notorious for selfish acts, for not aiding the dwarrows in their time of need, but would he truly kidnap a child…?  


And even more important, why? Why would he do such a thing?  


“Do you have proof of this, Drogo?” They were on a first name basis at least from Thorin’s point of view, for they had spent weeks around each other, while the hobbit had tended to him in the sick bed that was his prison; he would always be grateful for the aid, and that was why he did not accuse, but merely question, merely proposition.  


But Drogo nodded and reached into the brown satchel strung around his waist and pulled out an object wrapped in gold linen, which he gently pulled away…  


And revealed a broken branch—with a small cloud attached to the one end, swishing around the stick with ease and serenity.  


A broken _golden_ branch.  


A golden branch that was, for all intents and purposes, always famously seen, as a part of the crown of King Thranduil in portraits, old tomes, and any other last remnants of images there were of him upon the Earth.  


“This was found in Bilbo’s bedroom that night, after Bungo heard his child scream in fright. It seems little Bilbo put up a fight…” Drogo sighed, and then picked up something else—a silver, glittery key with a circle handle, and swirls and whorls encrusted into the side, “Along with this. A key that we are unsure of in regards to the purpose.”  


“Why would he take your cousin?” Thorin gently picked the key from the halfling’s fingers, and yes, it was of elven make, feeling light as air, almost nonexistent.  


“…Because Bilbo was…er… _special_ …” Drogo trailed off, and meant to leave it there, but both Thorin and Thror quirked their eyebrows; they would need more than that one word to promise any help, but Thorin would be lying if he said he was not at least a tad curious.  


“Bilbo has…a unique power, my Prince. Every one thousand years, my people are blessed by Yavanna in the way that one of my kin is given a…gift. To help their people. We are small, pleasure-seeking creatures, my Prince. We are hearty and hardy, but we are not always the strongest beings in the world. We can be taken advantage of quite easily…or harmed.” Drogo finished and there was a scowl upon his face while he looked away from the royals for a few seconds, and he also looked to be about ready to throw his walking stick in frustration, but he continued on, “Eons ago, we had Thaddmarius the Clairvoyant. A few centuries ago, we saw the coming of Malvaria the Future-Seer. And now…now Bilbo was blessed unto my kin and he was taken.”  


“And then what of this hobbit’s ability, hm? What can your cousin do?” That had been Thror, calling out in a curious manner, and Thorin tried to ignore the obvious shiver down his spine; recently, though he would not admit it, he worried over his grandfather. There was a stench of unusual madness about him; greed, his conscience told himself, as he would catch his elder down in the chambers of gold and silver, murmuring to himself nonsense in Khuzdul that Thorin did not want his brain to translate and understand. And now, asking about…powers and abilities…Thorin was concerned.  


“I will not say.” Drogo’s stern voice came through, “It is not my place to talk of my cousin’s ability. Let me just leave it at this: his power could alter the future and destroy any world if it was desired and if that power was in the wrong hands. And it currently _is_ in the wrong hands, my Liege. I know not why Thranduil would take my dear cousin hostage, but I am tired of waiting for him to return, for I know he will not come back of his own volition. He is being held hostage, and thus must be rescued. Our spies have been fruitless, so we need those made of, dare I say it, stronger stuff--like stone.” A flitting smirk graced the small creature’s features as his tired, sallow eyes graced Thorin’s frame, “You owe my people a debt. That we can agree upon. We are not wont for gold—we are wont for our Blessed Child, as we call those lucky to be graced with Yavanna’s gifts. Only when he is in the Shire will he be safe, and will be this entire realm.”  


Drogo sucked in a breath, and continued on, “One of you—or a group of you, if you wish—must travel to Aduial, the Eventide Kingdom in the Sky, and find my cousin and bring him back to the Earth, out of the Sky. I do not care if you kill every single elf you see, or none. We do not require Thranduil’s demise, as I feel it would be…difficult. All we want is Bilbo and we are even willing to provide you the way to Aduial. Will you take this up for us, my Earthen brethren?”  


There was silence for a moment, and Thorin’s orbs found themselves darting about—no one moved, no one spoke, not one soul made any action to make him believe they would take up the mantle of saving this poor creature. He could understand Dis saying no, and his nephews were too young (though they were twitching in their boots and _did_ seem eager to do something, even at only in their mid-fifties), but Frerin, haughty and not _that_ young, only glanced at his nails and was clearly trying not to glance at Drogo and the half-dozen other hobbits that were by his side, all with slowly-falling faces at the sight of no one stepping up. And the king himself glanced at his son, while Thrain merely chewed his jaw, seemingly contemplating the situation…  


But would he make a move…?  


Thorin doubted it.  


So _he_ did.  


“I shall do it.”  


Instantly, bearded faces from all around the room, lords and ladies, children, and his own family, gazed upon him as he stepped closer to Drogo, nodding his head as he continued with,  


“I shall go and find your cousin.”  


“Thorin--“  


“Grandfather. Someone must go. We owe them more than we could possibly give them in gold, and if this is all they are asking…And I owe Drogo a life debt, after all he did to aid me through my fever. If it would suffice to save the life of his cousin, then the debt shall be repaid.”  


“Indeed, Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, it would truly be repaid.” By now, the halfling was grinning; he reached into a satchel and pulled out a stack of papers tied together with a red ribbon. Unfurling the ribbon, Drogo reached and flipped up the first, a photograph. “This is my cousin. You will need this picture to find him. One of our spies was able to steal some of the elven technology—they have so many different, beautiful things up there!—and take this…picture. He was able to send it back to us before he was caught, so yes, Bilbo is alive as of four months ago.”  


Thorin took the photograph, and…well. Truthfully, he was not sure what he had been expecting.  


But he didn’t expect his heart to beat a little fast at what he saw.  


It was a black and white picture, but there was a soft, round face with flowing curls and a button nose, and dark eyes staring up above at something unseen; possibly a bird, possibly the sky, who was to really know? It was a full-body photograph, save for the most of Bilbo’s legs past the knees. There was no background, merely blackness—a wall, perhaps?—but what looked like the edge of some form of a balcony was set in the bottom right corner.  


But Thorin, oh, poor Thorin of one-hundred and thirty with no one by his side, could not look away from that frame dressed in a dark jacket and matching pants, with a white-as-snow shirt and a wistful smile on his face.  


He really did try to form words, Thorin truly, truly did, but all he could do was let out a soft “Ah…” as he gazed upon the hobbit's— _Bilbo’s_ —face.  


Well. He would surely remember what he looked like when he got up there, and-  


“Seems my brother’s smitten.” Frerin snorted from behind and the elder of the brothers did his best to fight a blush, fight it down with all his might but Thorin felt the heat, yes indeed, and he huffed out an angry breath, while handing the photograph back to Drogo.  


“Ignore my brother’s ignorance, my friend.”  


But the halfling merely smiled, stating, “Bilbo was blessed with his mother’s good looks, I shall say that. He’d have many a suitor if he returned home.”  


“Unless Thorin runs off with him first—OOF!” Frerin clutched his stomach as Thorin jabbed an elbow into it, and as the raven-haired one growled out,  


“Bilbo has been kidnapped, brother. Do not make such inappropriate jokes at his cousin’s expense!”  


Drogo merely laughed, though, as he fished out the second piece of paper, “Truly, Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, I would feel more comfortable if it was you had my cousin in your possession than Thranduil. At least he would be on the ground. That being said, the deal is not about whisking him away to parts yonder. You shall return with him to Erebor—where we _will_ wait—and then he shall go with us to the Shire. If he wishes to…go elsewhere…it will be after some time. His home is waiting for him—quite literally, in fact. His parents’ smial has been abandoned for a decade, but I have made sure it was untouched.”  


“Abandoned?”  


“Aye. Belladonna and Bungo are dead, my Prince. Dead of heartbreak, truly. They felt as if they had let Yavanna and their kin down and they missed their little boy so, so much. And he was their only child, and there was never any wish to try for another…” Drogo sighed, “I remember that night. I had been sleeping over—I am a decade older than my cousin, you see, and I was visiting the family with my wife-to-be, Primula—and it was cold, and dark, and all had been silent until the mirror in Bilbo’s room had been shattered. It was…like a crash in the night, so loud, along with loud groans and angry grunts…and Bungo had gone running into the child’s room and…and Bilbo had screamed once…But once we reached the room, the bed had been torn asunder, the mirror cracked, the branch and key on the floor, and the window ajar. It was pure madness.”  


“They…They would be proud that you are going so far for your cousin, Drogo.”  


“Aye. And they would be proud you have taken up their cause. _Our_ cause.”  


The rest of the papers were passed between the hobbit and the dwarf, then; a map of the entire city, also conjured up by hobbit spies that had been too weak to save the creature. A recent picture of Thranduil, all in his cocky glory, silver-blond hair trailing down his back, followed that and Thorin asked,  


“You truly do not know what he wants with Bilbo?”  


“I cannot say. But it is Thranduil, the brazen elf who took his people to the sky because they are supposedly better than the rest of us, including his Rivendell kin…he could want my dear Bilbo for anything. Anything dangerous, that I promise you. Though I cannot say what it is Bilbo can do…it is a power that Thranduil must not have. It is a power no one but Bilbo should have, really.”  


Thorin was quiet for another moment or so, gazing at the papers as they passed over his fingers back and forth, and in his mind his conviction grew stronger; he and his kin had never any lost love for Thranduil and his elven men and women who had abandoned Middle Earth years and years ago, as if it had been on a psychotic whim of selfish desire. Nor had Thranduil, unlike the hobbits, aided them in any sort of way come that winter; no, those woodland elves had been tucked away, far away—above the clouds—and never cared to even look down upon their old ‘neighbors’ ever again, even in their darkest hours.  


And there were just some lines, some morally-righteous, wholesome lines, that should never, never be crossed.  


“Are you then satisfied with the information I can give you?”  


Silence, a heart-beat, then,  


“Yes.”  


Drogo smiled, “Excellent. Get yourself ready to leave, then, and pack up your things. We leave come the next sunrise.”  


_\---  
_

Morn came too quickly for Thorin, but he was as ready as he could be.  


It was just disappointing that the afternoon and evening had passed all too quickly, and soon enough, with the sun, he had been leaving Erebor after kissing his sister goodbye, bowing to his grandfather, and shaking the hands of his brother; Fili and Kili, ever curious, followed him out the gates as escorts, grinning all the while—and Thorin, down the road, would realize he should have been suspicious of his nephews’ behavior—while whispering between each other and carrying Thorin’s bag.  


And since it was just the three of them, besides their halfing escort, Thorin could recollect the memories of the past few hours with ease.  


Immediately upon Drogo leaving court and retiring to his own quarters, his hobbits following suit, Thorin had been escorted to his own private quarters by his father and grandfather, his siblings following them. Dis began hurrying around, gathering clothes from his closets and a bag, murmuring to herself while Frerin stood around, smirking, teasing that his elder brother was going off to be a savior to all of the Shire, get ready to kiss grumpy ol’ Thorin’s ring, everyone, and mostly chortling to himself over the entire situation.  


It was when Dis, in a tither, stating that _none of these clothes would work_ while hurrying out the door, leaving the males in the room confused—and thus Frerin was bored enough to leave--did Thrain come out of his silence to speak with his son.  


“What did she mean by the clothes not working?” Thorin quipped an eyebrow at his father, while juggling a leather sack in his hands; he knew any and all weapons he could take would have to be small—there would be no point walking around Aduial with a giant cleaving axe at his belt, lest he wished to be executed—and he supposed the ebony dagger he had received upon his seventieth birthday would be a good start. Perhaps a small, steel hand-axe would work as well…but then there was food, and a cloak, and-  


Mahal, for a royal prince that had rarely left Erebor, let alone the East, traveling off the ground was to be far more trying than he had originally expected.  


“They dress differently up in Aduial. You will need clothes that resemble elves or men if you wish to blend in. Men, more than likely. You do not have the stature of an elf to even remotely get away as one of Thranduil’s kin.” Thrain stroked his salt-and-pepper beard in amusement for a moment, “Unless you wish to wear boots with an… _exquisite_ heel.”  


“Hah. Hardly.”  


“Indeed.” Thrain sighed, and placed a hand upon Thorin’s shoulder, “…Son. There is still time to call this off-“  


“Father-“  


“You need not sacrifice for…for these _hobbits_ like this.”  


“And yet it is those same hobbits that sacrificed for us. I know you have not forgotten.” Blue eyes stared into gray, and Thrain knew when a battle was lost before it had even begun.  


“I have not. But surely we could send someone else if you were to change your mind.”  


“And whom would you send? Dwalin? _Frerin_?” Thorin let out a chuckle as he wrapped his dagger into the bag, along with a small throwing axe, “No. There would have never been anyone else. This task is to be mine, and mine alone.”  


“I suppose…in the end, really…this could be a way to earn even more glory. More pride when it comes to your name, your title.” A pause, “Your future.”  


“…Yes.” Thorin sighed; indeed, glory would come with this if he was to be successful. Thief of Thranduil, stealing back what he stole and giving Bilbo back to his rightful home, that would be what they would call him, what they would say of him.  


And yet…this wasn’t something to do for glory; Thorin’s mind was stuck on curly tresses and bright eyes and fancy clothes and what he could see, what he could accomplish, whom he could meet. His heart was stuck on righteousness and honor and bringing that damn elf down a peg or five.  


But somewhere, in the back of Thorin’s mind, he doubted this would be anything but easy.  


“I am confident you will do well, son. Bring him home, and then come home to us.”  


“Aye, of course.”  


Thrain is never one for overt affection, so he merely squeezed his son’s shoulder and padded quietly out of the room, leaving Thorin and Thror the last two in the room.  


“You are not going to ask me to change my mind as well, are you?” Thorin gives his elder a small smile, and he tries to ignore the squeeze in his heart when he catches his grandfather staring at the golden chains he had left out on his nightstand earlier that morning. Thorin, in his youth—er, his _middle-age_ —does appreciate gold to an extent and will never object to silver beads in his hair…  


And yet…  


He sees a slow-as-molasses madness taking over his grandfather, and sometimes he wonders if he is the only one that can actually see it. He knows of the line of Durin’s curse: the susceptibility to greed with gold, to madness with gold, and it has been whispered about for years, and Thorin hopes, with all his might, it may spare him in the future.  


But it has not spared Thror, if the look he gives the gold, as if he did not hear Thorin’s calm question whatsoever, is anything to go by.  


“Grandfather?”  


“Hmm?” It is only when the younger touches Thror’s shoulder does he awaken from his stupor and give Thorin a smile, “Oh, no, no, boy! No! You are going to do just, just fine, I am sure of it.”  


Thorin wondered then if he should be concerned at how…lax his grandfather seemed about his second-heir going off into the wild blue yonder.  


Literally.  


“You truly believe so?”  


“Quite! But…I did have something I wished to say to you.” Thror gave him a grin then, and leaned in closer, “Perhaps…well. Once you meet this hobbit, you will obviously be able to judge what kind of power he has, yes?”  


“I…I’m guessing so, yes.”  


“And one can assume—because of that Drogo’s secrecy—that perhaps this Bilbo’s power is monumental, correct?”  


“Well…I suppose…” Thorin trailed off, nerves blooming on his face like flowers from his mother’s garden from years ago, “I do not understand why that is so important-“  


“Because, my dear Thorin, if that power is so great indeed, would it not be wise to bring the hobbit back to Erebor?” There is a dark aura, and even darker mirth, in Thror’s eyes and it makes Thorin’s heart beat faster because the _implication of his question…_  


It is terrifying.  


“What in the world are you saying? Grandfather, that it outright nonsense! What you are suggesting-“  


“I am suggesting nothing.” Thror grasped his descendant’s shoulder, the smirk plastered on his face deepening, “But if you are to see something grand from this Bilbo Baggins, would it not be smart to bring him back to Erebor? For perhaps that power could be more useful in _our_ hands. Think on it, Thorin. What if he can create gems from thin air? What if he can control the weather? What if-“  


“What if I will never do such a thing?” Thorin shrugged off the offending hand and ignores the shivers that threaten to wrack his body; his stomach is clenching in a horrible fashion as his grandfather’s words begin to haunt his mind.  


And they will continue to haunt his mind, though he does not know it yet.  


“Now, Thorin, it is just a thought. Nothing to ruffle yourself over, ahaha!” Thror let out a righteous laugh that, for once, did not bring a smile to his grandson’s face, “Knowing the hobbits, Bilbo’s footsteps make flowers bloom or some other nonsense that would be useless to us. Let the proposition not trouble you. Now pack up the rest of your things and rest well.”  


And as Thror leaves, the youngling with bright blue eyes filled with pity cannot help but hope that Bilbo does cause flowers and nature to bloom with his innocent steps—though he doubts Thranduil would take a boy just for that—because it would mean there would truly be nothing to tempt anyone, to cause greed and madness.  


And obviously, because the image is sweet and warms his heart through the darkest ideas and darkest images that haunt Thorin as his grandfather’s retreating, slouched back go through the doorway.  


He knows that the conversation will haunt him through and through, and it does--even if those exact words, the exact idea, is not to come back for some time and tempt Thorin himself.  


But even as he walks through Erebor with his nephews and Drogo at his side, as they slide onto ponies and head even more eastward than Erebor, Drogo leading the pack in silence, he hears Thror's madness in his head; even as he glances back at the mountains he hopes to one day see again, possibly with a new appreciation, a new light, a new friend, even, perhaps. Even as he moves down the road toward a future he cannot image, cloak circling his body, hood above his face like a darkened halo, Thorin knows he will worry about his grandfather and pray that the madness does not strike him down in his absence, and that he will forgive him for not bringing a scared, homely being into his grasp.  


Though he does not ponder if his own madness will take hold—or if Bilbo will be a spark to the dynamite of it all.  


Instead, after two hours of traveling on their horses, a lake protected by golden and auburn trees comes into view; Thorin--and his kin--had never seen this lake before, and as the water glows like crystals beneath his feet, and the grass billows softly in the breeze, he stands in awe at the majesty of the place, the silent beauty that stands before him.  


And there is also a golden, cylindrical tower that is akin to a lighthouse used by Men that stands before them all as well, nestled out in the middle of the miles-long and even more miles-wide lake, stretching up to the sky.  


“This is it, then?”  


“Aye.” Drogo replies, sighing as he digs in the pack for the paperwork from before, along with the key he had previously shown the dwarrows, “And this is where I leave you. Hobbits cannot swim, and I am too weak to row the boat across.” He nods towards a wooden boat nestled against the grass, murmuring further as he hands Thorin the necessary goods, “Take all of this and keep it close to your heart.”  


“I will. Thank you…for your guidance thus far.” The princely dwarf replies as he pockets the papers into his sack.  


“Do not thank me just yet.” Drogo’s wan smile says it all, “You may regret doing this by the end of it all.”  


“I suppose there is that chance.” Thorin sighs as Kili gazes at the water, gently touching it, Fili standing above him in shock still at what lies before them.  


“How in the name of Mahal did you know this was here, Drogo?” The elder nephew asks with wonder.  


“Lots and lots of spying, really. When Aduial traveled to the sky through Thranduil’s magic, he needed to leave a place that he—and anyone else—could use if they wished to return to Earth to gather kin that had not come the first time, or gain supplies if needed. Nowadays, this tower is not used for that, but instead for tourism means.”  


“Tourism?” Kili asks, straightening, “Why?”  


“Thranduil has an ego, child. He wants all to marvel at the majesty of his self-sustaining kingdom above the clouds. Those who are given invitations to come to Aduial are given instructions to find this place and enter the kingdom here. Though of course, only elves and men are allowed—“  


Thorin does not need to be reminded of that, but he cannot help but touch his now-shorn beard. The hanging bead is gone, nestled in a pocket in his pants. His hair has been trimmed and placed back in a ponytail with a red ribbon, while his white tunic is hidden by a brown vest, arms bare save for a bracelet with thinly-carved ruins of the line of Durin on his left wrist—after all, he needs a piece of home with him. There is a red, loosely-tied neckerchief around his neck, hanging midway at his chest, while the beads that usually held his braids together have been replaced by hard-to-see black ties, blending into his hair with the ease of a serpent in the brush; his pants are not his usual royal blue, but are instead black with reedy, white pinstripes and black shoes--suitable for dwarf feet, but they are not his favorite boots, and are thus still lesser quality in his mind.  


All of it in thanks to Dis, who had come running back into his room later the previous evening, with human clothes in her hands, tears in her eyes, saying he could pass for a short, strong human with rich clothes from faraway lands, but not an elf, obviously. The elven kind of Aduial wore silver and gossamer and golden wreathes, with pastel-colored dresses and hair adornments, but the Men that visited were rich in status and wealth, and wore whatever they wished and Thranduil said nothing of it.  


She had shaved some of his beard and cut his hair, too, and though Thorin hated to lose both the hair and beads, he knew that if he did not, he would have been found out the moment he set foot in the city; his sister had sobbed somewhat over the task of aiding her brother, but Thorin squeezed her hand tightly, whispering words of comfort as best as he could.  


Dis’ response was only one statement:  


“Just bring him home so _you_ can come home. I cannot be in this mountain without my both of my brothers.”  


And Thorin had promised he would return to her, because they had already lost dear Mother; they did not need another loss so soon.  


“Heh. Just promise me you won’t fall in love with a stupid, tree-shagging, hobbit-stealing elf and decide to stay there.”  


“Never.” He chuckled at her.  


“Good. Only dwarfs or hobbits for your heart, dear brother of mine.”  


He had sputtered in embarrassment, trying to hide a flush, but to no avail.  


And now, as Drogo gave them one last wave as he settled on his horse and pranced off, and as Thorin slung the silver key around his neck, he remembered his sister’s words fondly with a sigh.  


He remembered his home with a sigh.  


“Come along, Uncle!” Fili called from the boat where he and his brother were already seated, oars in Kili’s hands, the boy ready to begin rowing; Thorin settled behind them with a nod as the trio took off, and so did the brothers' banter.  


“Honestly, Fili, are you just going to sit there?”  


“Would you rather have me stand, Kili?”  


“Well, no, but you could aid me in the rowing, you cheeky bastard.”  


Fili was indeed giving his sibling a cheeky grin as the tower loomed closer, “Come now. I’m the oldest, and you were the first in the boat and went straight for the oars in your excitement. Why should I hinder your great progress on getting Uncle there?”  


“So you just expect me to shoulder the entire burden?”  


“Burden? Hah! Never.” A pause, “Though I do expect you to do all the rowing.”  


Kili groaned, while Thorin merely rolled his eyes at the duo, “Honestly, Fili, must you-“  


“Must I? Must I insist that the rowing is wonderful exercise? Yes. Yes, I will insist on that.”  


“Perhaps Uncle could assist me-“  


“Please. Uncle doesn’t _row_.”  


“He doesn’t row?”  


“No. He _doesn’t_ row.” Another pause, then a smile, “Have you ever seen Uncle row anything in your life?”  


“I’m about to give _you_ a row, brother dear.” Kili huffed just as Thorin spoke up with,  


“Enough! I did not get on this boat to listen to you two argue over nonsense.”  


“Indeed, Uncle.” Kili gave the elder a grin, dark hair whipping in the light wind, “You got on the boat to go be Prince Charming to a lovely little hobbit.”  


“Exactly, Kili!” Fili chirped, “Uncle is about to go and be Bilbo Baggins’ hero.”  


“Do you think Bilbo will give him a sweet, soft kiss when this is all over? Most maidens would.”  


“Oh dear, I hope Bilbo never finds out that an heir of Durin’s line called him a _maiden_!” Fili laughed, “I’m sure he would not like that, Kee.”  


“Well, _Fee_ , I cannot help it. Uncle looked at him as if he wished to take him in his arms and-“  


“ENOUGH!” Thorin sputtered with red skin while the younglings laughed—and the boat landed on the shore of the tower’s small, sandy island. “I will not miss the noise that repeatedly comes out of your mouths while I am away, that is a certain thing.”  


“Aww, Uncle!” The brothers whined with perfect synchronization, “You don’t mean that!”  


And all the elder could do was sigh—while gazing at the silvery steps that awaited him.  


“…Get back to Erebor safe and sound. Understood? No stops along the way. The last time you made a detour of any kind, it was to Dale, and I had to haul your inebriated rear ends back in the twilight hours, and I will not be repeating that again any time soon." Thorin shouldered his pack with a tight grip, gazing at his kin with wide, almost-sorrowful eyes as he whispered, “And I will be back soon.”  


The trio embraced one last time, and Thorin would always enjoy—even if he sometimes said otherwise—the feeling of his heirs’ arms around his body. Though he was still young, and there was still the chance he could have his own descendants and would-be-heirs, it would not be the same as the brothers before him. For Thorin had never felt the pull of a One before, and he had refused all quips of a possible arranged marriage with a princess from faraway lands, so what was the point of wishing for heirs from his own loins? If there was to be no one, no soul-mate for his own troubled soul, why wish for sons or daughters?  


Fili and Kili would do just fine. Young, brave, bold, and maybe a bit brash…but they would eventually do just fine.  


With steely resolve, Thorin did not look back as he entered the golden tower with branches twisting and turning, as he walked into what could be called a trunk of a tree with marble columns inside holding up the roof made of silvery, shining plates, with windows of colored glass and elfish language decorating the walls as he climbed up, up--and he did not look back once.  


Nor did he look back as he found himself seated in a golden chair with fire pumping underneath it, with glass encasing all sides as wings sprouted from the back, and a humming encased his entire being—as an engine roared to life, as the _shuttle_ Thorin was seated in grew in power, strength—and came to life.  


Though he did not look back, Fili and Kili looked up at their Uncle as he rocketed towards the sky, grins on their faces—and thoughts in their minds as their Uncle disappeared amongst the clouds.  


“You know, Fee, I bet there are a few extra of those contraptions inside that tower.”  


“Really, Kee? Whatever gave you that idea?”  


“Well, if it is for tourism, wouldn’t they want multiple people to come into Aduial at once? Not just one at a time?”  


“True, very true…” Fili fiddled with the backpack strapped to his back, eventually setting it on the ground.  


“And really, brother…we did bring those extra human clothes and those lovely shears and hair-ties. It would be a waste to not use them!”  


“Again, very true.” The blond one smirked as he pulled out a lightly-colored suit jacket and green tie, “Though you are the fool who accidentally grabbed the brown skirt instead of the matching brown pants—like _I_ did.”  


The brunette huffed, dark eyes fuming with annoyance, “I cannot help it! We were in a hurry, and we did not want Mother to see us!”  


“Still, brother, that was a foolish mistake. At least it goes down to your feet and you will not scare the elves with your hairy legs.”  


“Not unless you scare them with your hairy face first, _brother_.” Kili growled as he emptied his bag and his brother merely laughed.  


“Which is why you are going to have the honor of shaving it, Kee.”  


“Oh, I feel _honored_ , alright.” Kili rolled his dark eyes, while Fili, already half-undressed, threw an arm around his shoulder and teased,  


“You should. Not many have the honor of touching my lovely face. And you have no beard, so whenever I pinch your cheeks, there is nothing to feel! What a shame!”  


“You are lucky I love you so much, do you know that?” Kili gave his sibling an unamused glower.  


Fili merely leaned in, punched his brother’s shoulder, and then gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek that made Kili squirm, “I would say I am the lucky one. Now quick, get changed and come here and shave me. Uncle is already there and we need to catch up.”  


“He’s probably going to kill us once he finds out we’ve followed him.”  


“Well, yes. But so will Mother once she realizes we are not coming home just yet. So either way, we will die. And I don't know about you, brother,” Fili chuckled as he laced his trousers, "But I would rather die while on an adventure than locked in my room like a child, yes?"  


“And Mother can obviously guess what we’re up to, right? So she shall not worry _too_ much...” The dark-haired brother grinned as he stripped off his pants with a laugh, “And really, what else were we expected to do?”  


“But go and keep an eye on Uncle?”  


“Exactly.” Both proclaimed at the same time as they winked at one another.  


Because it was foolish of anyone to doubt that the brothers craved adventure, daring worlds, and following in their brave Uncle's footsteps.  


Because it was foolish of anyone to doubt that they were each other’s Ones—though of course they never said, for fear of repercussions--even though they slept each night in each other's arms.  


And because it was foolish of anyone to believe that they would stay on the ground while their Uncle went up and touched the sky.  


\---  


He had landed in a beautiful, ethereal holy center and garden, and for a few moments, Thorin forgot to breathe.  


Granted, he had forgotten to breathe when he had soared into the air, the golden city surrounding him once he was high enough; homes the size of miniature Erebors greeted him with splendor, while a voice in his moving contraption welcomed him to “Aduial, the Great Splendor of Thranduil the Immortal” and did nothing to calm his racing heart.  


Now, after having landed in a small pool of water, he had risen to walk amongst flowers and stain-glass windows, while moving towards an exit—according to the signs, at least—with slow, cautious steps. Around him, scenes of Thranduil surrounded him and were etched in greens and brows of different shades and different shapes of glass. The scenes showed ferocious battles (with the elf king being victorious), courageous moments of Thranduil holding up golden branches of supposed peace and power while his citizens bowed low at his feet and there was even a window with him and a beautiful maiden of corn-silk hair and blue eyes that shone like the oceans below.  


But it was the final scene in the holy welcoming center—a church, really, in many ways—that stopped Thorin in his tracks.  


Made of glass, Bilbo Baggins floated in the air, eyes closed with a smile on his face with arms outstretched as he wore blue that matched Thorin’s own and a halo of light circled his hair like he was an angel.  


Or a prophet.  


Or a _Son of the Valar_.  


And the words above his memorial—indeed, a memorial, for there was water pooling around Thorin’s ankles in front of the glass, and candles floated on the water and humming echoed out amongst the deep halls—were even more akin to that of a holy scripture.  


THE CHILD OF THE KINDLY WEST  


SHALL PRESERVE THE THRONE  


AND DROWN IN FLAMES  


THE MOUNTAINS OF OUR FOES  


“…Mahal…”  


They revered the hobbit like a Valar, Thorin realized. There were gifts in tribute to him around his boots, too; toys and flowers and chocolates and oh God, what had Thorin gotten himself into?  


He was not just recusing a kidnapped soul—he was rescuing a soul that was revered and adored by the race that had stolen it.  


Frightened, even more so when those same four lines were repeated on the statues that lead him towards the garden where various elves were on their knees praying, Thorin tightened his cloak and kept moving. There was no time to dally, and maybe if he got lucky, he could easily grab Bilbo and sneak out without anyone noticing.  


 _If_ he was to be lucky.  


Once he was past the petunias and roses, and opening a golden door with a final intake of breath to steady his nerves, Aduial greeted him in its entire splendor: the sky was the bluest he had ever seen, and all around him were small islands of earth floating amongst the clouds, but never colliding with one another. Those homes were akin to those of Men and elves—some, square, while others were purely trees—trees! Actual trees!—reaching up beyond towards the stars. Some were actually real trees, while others were golden and silver, made of metal and glass. There were buildings upon buildings, stretching for miles, and bridges connected island to island for some minutes, allowing citizens to cross whenever they wished.  


There were metal lines stretching between homes and shops and small trams—trams! What technology, they were light-years ahead of the Men below, and of course there was no need for the dwarrows to have such things—traveled back and forth, escorting people, packages, and more.  


The air smelled of nature, of fruit and flowers and honey and inside, Thorin hated that it was not the earth he loved, but it was a decent smell nonetheless. There were elves everywhere—some were on benches talking with one another in their secret, illustrious language; others were eating amongst the grass, pomegranates and plums in their hands, or dancing with one another in bliss. Others went from building after building, gazing at the goods available for purchase.  


There was no hard work here.  


There was no sweat and toil.  


There was no struggle, no work, no pain or suffering.  


And Thorin found himself barely able to control the growl that threatened to come forth.  


But he kept moving on the island he found himself upon. Though he got some stares, and a few raised eyebrows, he remained mute and did his best to carry himself like a human male as one of the bridges came to him, and he crossed; he instead stared up at the giant, diamond-made statue of the Elven King, whose crown stretched to the sky above while clouds billowed around it, and whose hands were outstretched in a motion of welcoming. The light shined through its entire being, glistening like gemstones that existed in Erebor’s walls and for a moment, Thorin was stunned with the idea that Thranduil had had this made—not that he had had it made for him, but that he had wanted it made of _diamonds_. For pure diamonds and gems to be turned into something so large, so gargantuan…it was unheard of, really.  


But he did not ponder on the statue for long—because the golden tree in the center of the kingdom caught his eye.  


And without even questioning, without even looking at the map Drogo had given him--for who needed a map in this place, _really_?--he knew that was where Bilbo was being held.  


It was the largest, grandest artifact in the entire Kingdom. Its branches stretched to the clouds and looked to be made of solid gold and for a moment, Thorin’s heart pounded, shouting _‘gold, gold, gold’_ but he shook it off quickly. For then he noticed the sign that stretched across the bottom of the tree, reading:  


MONUMENT ISLAND.  


 _Monument indeed_ , he thought with a sigh; of course it would be like Thranduil to lock away the hobbit in a tower like this was some sort of stupid fairy tale.  


The only problem was the sign below that proclaimed:  


CLOSED DUE TO EMERGENCY.  


Well, that was troubling. That meant the idea of asking for entrance was out, as was the idea of sneaking in, wanting a "tour" of the place, and then grabbing Bilbo in secrecy...  


But no ‘emergency’ would stop Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, from achieving what he had set out to do.  


So the dark-haired dwarf paused, looking at the best way to get towards the island without causing much of a ruckus; he followed more bridges across different islands, keeping to himself and—on the occasion there was a large crowd—he hid amongst the building’s shadows, watching, waiting, breathing slowly but surely, the bricks or metal cool against his heated back and body.  


Thankfully, as he moved, Thorin noticed, many of the elves were moving towards one island in particular that had a banner proclaiming ‘ANNUAL SPRING CELEBRATION’. It seemed he had come at the most opportune time (had Drogo known? He bet it to be true), despite the fact he would have to go through that park-holding island to get closer to the monument. But, the idea of celebration was enough to fill the elves with glee and they paid him little heed as he followed behind, sticking to the darkness of the trees’ trunks and the man-sized hedges that lined the metal fence of the park.  


Unfortunately, he could not ignore everyone’s eyes—a young elf maiden eventually came up to him just as he was about to pass a stage where harps were being played and voices sang out in delight.  


“Sir! Please, take a sample of this. Courtesy of the Great King.”  


She carried a large basket of bottles, and handed him one--a glowing bottle of green liquid--and Thorin was instantly disgusted; a twitch of his face came forth and he could not help but ask,  


“What in Ma—I mean, what is this?”  


“'Possession', Sir. A new magical potion developed by the Great King for the masses to consume and aid them in their daily lives!”  


“…Thanks.”  


It was better to not be rude, and Thorin pocketed the drink into his sack—but not before the elf maiden, with her flaxen hair and shining green eyes—grabbed him again, speaking,  


“Sir, do not leave so soon! Please, join us in the celebration!”  


“Er-“  


“I understand if you are not an elf that you would be hesitant, but please, you are more than welcome. The Great King wishes for all to know of our glory. Men included.”  


Well, the makeover was apparently working, but his words were not; because the girl pulled him along further into the park, to another stage where a tall, lean elf with blond hair down to his waist stood in armor the color of the leaves, with a solid-white ball in his hands that he bounced as he spoke.  


“Ladies and gentlemen! Let us play a game, shall we?” He laughed, and the crowd cheered, shouting ‘Legolas! Legolas! Prince Legolas!’ and Thorin instantly made the connection; the youth had Thranduil’s lightly-hued eyes and smile and porcelain skin and voracious laugh that echoed out in the park, and Thorin found his composure slipping as he was pushed to the edge of the stage to watch by the girl—who seemingly vanished into thin air.  


“Now, now, who shall volunteer to be this year’s thrower?” Cheers shouted up, hands were raised, but Legolas’s eyes locked onto Thorin’s with eerie precision and the prince should have been worried at how quickly he was found by the other royal, but all he could think of was confusion and disdain.  


“How about you, good sir?” The elf threw Thorin the ball just as he kicked a switch on the stage—to reveal something utterly horrifying.  


From below, after the floor opened up to Legolas’ right, a platform rose and on it, a post—with two creatures tied to it.  


A hobbit male and female, to be precise. Both bloody, bruised, and tied with too-tight knots around their wrists and Thorin knew who they had to be: the spies that had been sent to find Bilbo, but had been captured.  


Boos and hissing echoed out at their appearance and Thorin’s stomach bottomed out—they were prisoners, had been prisoners, and now they were a public display of horror and humiliation.  


“Come now, good Sir! Throw the ball at these two _trespassers_ before we launch them out of the sky!”  


Oh God, they meant to throw them to the mercy of gravity and the Valar…Thorin knew that his conscience would not let him throw this ball, not let him harm these innocent creatures who had just been trying to find their family member, their friend. But if he did not, he would surely be found out, surely questioned.  


And yet…  


Sapphire eyes locked onto the grinning princely elf, and Thorin made his decision.  


His arm came back, and he meant to throw it straight into that pompous elf’s face, take that, you ignorant, rich child…  


But Thorin never got the chance.  


Just as his arm moved, it was grabbed—by a tall, red-headed elf in silver armor behind him—and Legolas came forward as the ball fell from the dwarf’s hands.  


“Of course…” Legolas sighed, “Our new visitor would dare not harm the kin of whom he has come to save.”  


Murmurs echoed out from the crowd as Thorin’s left wrist was shoved towards the elf prince, who gazed down—at the bracelet of the line of Durin.  


“Ah…Yes…I recognize those runes. Durin, is that not what they say?” A smirk came forth, “We’ve been expecting you, Prince Thorin of Durin the Deathless' Line.”  


And the world bottomed out from Thorin as the words came out and he could have sworn his heart stopped for a few, brief seconds.  


How? How had they known he was coming?  


Who had told them of his quest?  


Had Thranduil been watching all along? From the first moment he stepped out of the shuttle? Or even when he was _in_ the shuttle?  


“Guards. Kill him.” Legolas spat out as shouts came from the crowd and Thorin knew it was time to move, time to go.  


He threw his wrist back in a heated punch, knocking the guard behind him down to his feet—and he broke into a run just as guards jumped down from the trees in the park, arrows at the ready. His ebony dagger had been taken out of his pouch upon arrival, and was now resting in his pant-leg with a short strap, and it was easy in this moment to take it out…  


And dive at the guard in front of him, aiming right for the jugular with a powerful slash.  


Blood came out, splattering everywhere, and arrows were flying behind his back and oh, he really should have brought armor, but then again, he had not been expecting _this_ sort of nonsense.  


Screams echoed out as elves and Men scattered and as Thorin himself ran for another park entrance, running as fast as his short legs could carry him; the hand-axe came out next, and he continued to slash his way through not just skin, but bushes. Arrows flew past his ears and shoulders, and one nicked both his right hand and ear, but Thorin kept moving.  


He kept moving even when he brought the axe down again and again upon foe after foe that managed to get in his way; faces were slashed, throats cut, shoulders maimed. But the damn elves kept coming, jumping down from the trees and moving through the brush without a care. He kept moving through the pain in his leg where he knew an arrow had found its mark.  


And he kept moving when he came to the edge of the island the park was on.  


For though there was no bridge to have him move to the next nearest island, he had to keep moving anyway.  


For there were guards on his tail, and they were already here.  


So Thorin, bleeding and panting, ponytail having come undone in the hustle and bustle, cloak having been lost in the wind somewhere in the park amongst the dead bodies he had left behind, did the only thing he could do.  


He jumped.  


\---  


It had been luck that he had jumped and landed on something soft. Falling around twenty feet, screaming all the while in fear, should have killed him.  


But he had landed on an airship that was floating slowly at a lower altitude, and though he had had to scramble for a rope nestled on the side, and was pretty sure he bruised his body at the impact, he survived.  


Survived long enough to land in a wet pool of water a few feet below with a tired splash, that is.  


Roses bloomed everywhere in the small pool and he sat up slowly, yanking out the arrow lodged in the back of his knee with a cry, and he was lucky he had been smart enough to pack extra bandages, in case Bilbo had been injured upon finding him. Instead, they were now for his use, as he wrapped up the wound on the edge of the water.  


This situation had immediately gone to the Balrogs faster than he had expected.  


Thorin fixed his ponytail with a spare tie—though really, was there any need?—and stood.  


And let out a sigh of relief.  


For the chase had brought him closer to Monument Island. In fact, it was only an island or two away.  


And the floating airship he had landed on had given him an idea.  


Quickly, with as much stealth as he could muster, Thorin ran behind the home whose pool he had landed in, and jumped the fence as best as he could all things considering, sticking to the darkness of the buildings he then traveled to, just as sirens rang out in the air, and a powerful, booming voice with silken tones rang out,  


“Attention, citizens of Aduial! The False Shepard is amongst us at last!”  


Really? They were already giving him some asinine title? Why not just say he was an intended kidnapper like any normal person would?  


“He is here to take away the Child of the Kindly West, as I predicted years and years ago! He is to take away the Child who I knew would save us all, and whom I have raised for forty years!”  


So the voice was Thranduil, was it? Thorin could only roll his eyes at the dramatic overtures that echoed out in the air as he hid behind a clothes shop, where elf maidens were fleeing with their intendeds in tow.  


“He has already killed six of my men in cold blood! He will kill again, if need be!”  


Okay, had it _really_ been six? Thorin had only counted four…  


“He is a menace and he threatens us all! A dwarf Prince who has overstepped his bounds and will die if I have any say in his fate! All citizens are to stay in their homes until the False Shepard is strung up and dead for all those to see, or until his head is sent back to his disgusting kin and fool of a grandfather!”  


A growl came from the air, from the hidden speakers, and Thorin found his own blood boiling as Thranduil spoke on, hidden miles away in his richly decorated home, with his son by his side, a box in front of him that he spoke into, in what we in modern years would call a microphone, his voice dripping with venom.  


“They warned me about you, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror…They who spoke to me years and years ago warned me of your oncoming bloody storm…I have worked too hard, TOO HARD, to let my beautiful kingdom fall at your hands. You will not take our beloved Bilbo Baggins from us. He is not yours to have!” Thranduil screamed, “And he never will be!”  


The sound cut off with a crash, and Thorin could only snarl to himself as he kept moving towards his target: a stationary airship that could take him to the monument.  


All Thorin knew was that he did not have time for Thranduil’s dramatics; and as he snuck closer and closer to the airship, dagger in his hand, his conviction was growing even stronger. Not just because he had been threatened and shot at, but because Thranduil was truly a madman with power that had gone to his brain and had frozen his heart.  


And as he quickly, but quietly, entered the airship, Thorin knew that, now, he had to be prepared for anything.  


And that included a lone pilot, resting at the head of the ship, a hat down on his eyes, his elven ears poking out from his light hair, gently snoozing.  


Thorin jerked the young male awake, knife at the ready as he spoke,  


“Fly me to Monument Island.”  


The elf froze, gasping, and taking one look at Thorin, then the band on his wrist with the runes, understood the situation.  


“I…I would rather die than help you, False Shepard.”  


It seemed it was not just some title given to him by a mad man…but an actual prophetic title that held meaning to the citizens. For if a sleeping youth knew who he was without hearing Thranduil's speech showed anything, it was certainly that.  


How unfortunate.  


“…That can be arranged.” Thorin sighed and stepped closer, because he truly did not have time for this.  


How unfortunate indeed.  


\---  


“I think Uncle’s been here.” Fili murmured as they entered the park with a sigh, and as Kili joined him, but was distracted by the gargantuan trees and mass amounts of flowers—and with not getting too much dirt on the skirt he was forced to wear.  


"What makes you say that, brother?”  


All Fili--now beardless and beadless--had to do was point at the bloodied bodies scattered about the grass, necks sliced and chests stabbed, eyes vacant and gray; the blond straightened his green tie that matched the one his brother wore—they wore the same light-tan suit jacket, white shirt, and brown bottoms and black shoes, too—while Kili’s dark eyes widened.  


“Oh.”  


“Right. Keep moving, then?”  


“Aye. But honestly, why couldn’t he have waited to kill someone? Or...er...five someones?"  


“Six, _Sanzeuh_. And it’s _Uncle_ , Kee.”  


“But still!” A sigh, “Do you think he’s even using the map Drogo gave him?”  


“I highly doubt it. Uncle gets lost in Erebor and he’s lived there all his life—you know how horrible his sense of direction is.”  


“But wouldn’t a map help with that?”  


Fili just gave his brother a look that spoke volumes.  


“…Right. Let’s just keep moving.”  


“And make sure you don’t get blood on your skirt, dear brother of mine. Mother would be displeased!”  


Kili did his best to hold in the urge to throw a white ball that was on the ground at his illustrious brother’s head.  


\---  


There he was.  


After long last—after already having to use his dagger, his axe, and after already sweating buckets and running for his life—there he was.  


Bilbo Baggins, dressed in beautiful royal blue slacks that stopped at his ankles, with a white-button up shirt and matching royal blue coat that looked to be made of the same velvet material, stood before Thorin.  


Only, well, Bilbo didn’t exactly know that Thorin was there. A one-way mirror stood between them, and instead of gazing into one another’s eyes, the dwarf’s sapphire eyes stared at the little hobbit as he perused a small study. There he sat, curls bouncing around his head as he read a large tome and Thorin could not believe how close he actually was…  


It had actually been easier than he thought to get to the Monument—the boy on the airship had struggled, but Thorin truly had not wanted to kill again so soon. So the hilt of his axe had been used to knock the lad unconscious, and he had been easily tied up with spare rope on the ship. He had parked right outside, hurrying in, and after a few steps, there was Bilbo on the other side.  


Surrounded by books and papers in this study, Bilbo swung his hairy, bare feet in the bright lights, and Thorin knew that these mirrors were here for a purpose—the elves had been studying Bilbo for years, it seemed, and that was a sickening thought. This poor creature should not be taken as a sideshow attraction!  


No, no, something in Thorin’s mind told him, he was more…  


He had been seen as holy-like, something to fear, something to question—something to look at from a scientific standpoint, really.  


And that was sickening, too.  


After a moment, Bilbo stood, and closed the book he was reading, setting it on the table and skipping out the room—and Thorin had no choice but to follow, up another set of metal stairs; his heart was pounding as hazel eyes were seared on his brain, along with light-brown and blond curls.  


_I feel as if I was born to meet you…_  


Thorin knew not where the statement had come from, but somewhere, in the pit of his soul, there was a tugging and he knew that this was not just a quest, not just an adventure.  


It was something more.  


Bilbo’s destination had been his bedroom, a small affair, and the hobbit had flopped on to his bed with a ‘whump’. There were various paintings around the room, some on easels, some on the wall, and the dwarf could not help but wonder if the hobbit himself had painted them--they were of nature, of people without faces dancing under lanterns and the harvest moon. More books lined the walls along with a doll or two, seemingly child relics from years gone by that Thranduil had never deigned to get rid of, and a barred window hung above the bed.  


The hobbit began to pace after a moment of lying down, and Thorin felt no qualms in watching; the creature, small in stature, but pudgy in stomach, was fascinating to gaze at, though sad at the same time.  


Even sadder when, on a whim, Bilbo came to his side of the mirror and touched it, their hands only barred from touching by a thin layer of glass; and though Bilbo’s eyes met his, they never saw him.  


But Thorin saw him and breathed out a breath that had been sitting in his lungs like a sleeping tiger; and once Bilbo slowly stepped away, he could only admire his back, his figure, with something akin to admiration and desire with a smile on his face.  


But that smile morphed into something else after a moment.  


For Bilbo brought his hands up, and they clenched, grasping nothing but the air around them—and then they began to pull.  


Like he was opening up a present, ripping into paper or sheets or clothing.  


And indeed—Bilbo Baggins was ripping into something.  


A soft grunt from the hobbit came through the speakers in the viewing area, and Thorin, mouth slightly agape, as the air in the room became charged with electricity, and a white line appeared quickly in Bilbo’s bedroom, his hands still pulling at it—and then the room exploded in a flash of quick, bright light as a _hole_ appeared in Bilbo’s room.  


No, not a hole—a portal.  


And in the portal was, if Thorin was correct, The Shire.  


In black and white, the Shire—with its tiny hobbit holes and fluffy grass—was visible in this…this portal. This mirror. This wavy existence that was visible for all to see.  


“What in the world…?"  


Bilbo had brought forth a portal into his room showing his old home…  


And the hobbit stood there, gazing with tearful eyes, and Thorin could see a child or two run across the view—which meant it was a live picture, a live event, happening somewhere for real, and dear God, was _this_ Bilbo’s ability? There was no other explanation, and it was fascinating, it was mind-blowing. Bilbo had literally _torn_ asunder the air around him to bring forth a way to another place, another place in space and time…  


And yet, the hobbit did not move towards the Shire. Could he not travel through? Could he only view and not touch?  


_What a miserable existence that must be…_  


He could not touch indeed, as Thorin saw, for Bilbo did reach out, but jerked his hand back with a tearful cry, and the Shire vanished from view, the portal fizzing out. And then the hobbit ran from the room, and Thorin heard himself shouting out “wait!” even though he was unheard.  


And the dwarf himself took off, up the stairs again, to the final floor, and what awaited him was a silver door, decorated with branches and small gems.  


And Thorin knew exactly what to do—he took out the key Drogo had given him and just as he predicted, and it fit perfectly in the slot right in the middle of the door.  


Tumblers moved and fell, and after a moment, a strong, hairy hand was able to push the door away; and before Thorin’s eyes was a massive library with a beautiful, rainbow-colored stain-glass window, decorated with roses of pink and gold, and his breath was taken away by the sight of both the window and the hundreds upon hundreds of books, books that lined the shelves for days, with dark colored spines, all in various languages…  


And the small hobbit curled up near the sunlight on the ground below, on a small upper ledge above the final bottom level of the room.  


Thorin, ever so quietly, began to walk—he was on the third level, and below his feet the boards were creaky and old, much too old for heavy dwarf feet, really—and he had to approach this perfectly. There was only one chance to make a good first impression, and in such a dangerous situation, caution and delicacy were necessary.  


Too bad his luck would run out when, upon touching the wooden railing and making for the first set of stairs, the wood would give out both in said railing and the floor below his body—and he would tumble to the ground with a scream.  


A scream that startled Bilbo into whipping around and gasping when Thorin landed onto the ground with a crash and a groan.  


“…Ugh…” Wood was scattered about him, but he had no time to think on it before Bilbo screamed a high-pitched sound…  


And began throwing books at Thorin’s head.  


“HEY! OW!”  


“AHH!”  


“STOP THAT!” A hardcover copy of _Physics and Matter_ slammed into his nose and the princely dwarf groaned and bowled over onto his back—and bowled over again when a copy of _Gandalf’s Fairy Tales_ slammed into his side. “I SAID, STOP THAT!”  


“NO! THIEF! MURDERER! MOLESTER!”  


“Molester!? OW!” Another book hit his head as Bilbo ran down the stairs, throwing another and finally coming to stand in front of him, a large tome with a light blue cover and gold, gilded handwriting brandished as a weapon, “CALM DOWN, BILBO!”  


The hobbit froze upon recognition of his name, and Thorin tried to ignore how his throat had suddenly dried with the appearance of the other being in his vision from above, the light bouncing off his curls in a beautiful fashion; thankfully, ignoring that fact was somewhat easy to do considering his nose was bleeding.  


“…You know my name.”  


“Aye. Ugh…” Thorin gripped his nose, “Did you have to throw books?”  


“I-I’m sorry, I thought…You just…You just _fell into my room!_ ”  


“Perhaps you should get your floors fixed.”  


Bilbo huffed and tossed the book in his hands at Thorin’s feet, “Excuse you, but I take good care of…this place.”  


“Of course you do. 'Tis a shame, since you are leaving it.”  


Hazel eyes widened at the words, “…Whatever do you mean? And for the record, _who are you_?”  


Thorin stood, taking a spare cloth from his pack to stop his bleeding nose—how royal, he wryly thought—and then gave the hobbit a bow and spoke after taking away the bloodied square,  


“Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, Prince of Erebor, Heir to the Throne, at your service. I am here for you.”  


Bilbo gaped, eyes roaming over Thorin’s form, “You…you are a dwarf.”  


“Yes.”  


“…Aren’t your beards supposed to be longer? And where are your beads? And-“  


“Do you always ask so many questions?” Thorin tiredly sighed—they did not have time for this!  


“Well, I have never seen a dwarf before, good sir!” Bilbo puffed himself up, fixing his jacket nervously, “Excuse me for questioning your appearance since you more look like a lumberjack from the human woods than any sort of dwarf I have ever met.”  


“Well, not that it matters, but I had to change my appearance to get here! And it took a great deal of effort, too!”  


Bilbo’s brow furrowed, “I…I can see that. All the dwarrows I have read of look…different. Though the hair you have is the right length.” The hobbit paused and sighed, shaking his head, “We are getting off track-“  


“You are just realizing that?”  


“…Did your mother ever teach you not to interrupt?”  


“Did your mother ever teach you not to question royalty?”  


“Not really, since I have never had the pleasure of meeting any up until now—and I am certainly _enjoying_ it.”  
Sarcasm dripped from Bilbo's lips like honey and veins of melted gold.

Thorin sighed, fingers running through his hair, “Listen, enough. Enough of this. I apologize for startling you, and if I happened to offend you, but we must _leave_. I have come to take you home.”  


At that, any and all quips on Bilbo’s tongue visibly died and a small whimper came from his throat, “Home?”  


“Aye. Drogo has sent me.”  


“…D-Drogo? Ol' Cousin Drogo? H-He’s come to get me? O-Or, well, he’s sent you to get me?”  


“Yes. We have to go, though, now, the elves-“  


“B-But you cannot get out of this place! Believe me, dwarf, I have tried. For years. All the doors are barred and locked and cannot be exited out of.”  


At that, Thorin smirked at the worrying creature before him, “How do you think I got in here, halfing?”  


Bilbo poined a finger at the dwarf at the quip, “First off, I am not half of anything, except maybe miffed at your petulance. Second off, I was going to say you fell from the sky, but you don’t have the wings or grace of a Valar, so that idea’s out.”  


_Cheeky hobbit…_  


Thorin would be lying if he said he disliked the cheekiness, though.  


“I think the actual answer you are looking for is this, Bilbo Baggins.” With a flourish, Thorin handed him the silver key, and at the sight of it, Bilbo gasped, murmuring, “Oh my…”  


And then the hobbit nodded, grasping it, “Could this really be the key I’ve been waiting for…?”  


“I believe it is.”  


And then the smaller male grinned and it lit up the room even more, “Then let us leave at once, please.”  


“Do you need to pack anything?”  


“Oh, no, no! I’m dreadfully tired of all of these books—forty years of books, books, and more books! Though I love these fairytales and stories, I’d dare say I’ve memorized them all by now. And I can certainly buy them once more when we are...home..." A sigh, for Bilbo secretly did love his books, but there was no way to take them with him--and was there really any need? "No, no, I just need myself, and you, and we are good to go!”  


Bilbo scurried quickly to the door, humming all the while—but stopped after a few seconds…  


For a whistling had started ringing out in the room.  


“…What is that?”  


But Bilbo did not answer right away—and the whistling continued.  


“…N-No…No…”  


“Bilbo? Bilbo, what is that?” Thorin’s feet carried him closer to the hobbit as the sound continued—a repeated do-do-do-do of whistling, high-pitched all the way; the hobbit began to worry the other, for his breathing picked up and he only whispered one word:  


“Smaug.”  


The whistling stopped for a moment, and then started up again, and Bilbo cursed, running back into the center of the room, shouting,  


“I’m here, I’m here, don’t worry! Everything is fine!” He then turned towards Thorin, “Yavanna help me, he must have heard the crash you made!”  


“Who? What is a ‘Smaug’?”  


“He’s-“ More whistling, “I’m FINE! Smaug, calm down!” Bilbo's voice was pleading and desperate and now, _now_ , Thorin was truly scared.  


Then the noise stopped once again…  


And a ferocious roar echoed from the outside.  


“O-Oh no…”  


“Bilbo…”  


“You have to get out of here!” Bilbo screeched, running towards the door with the key, “Get out of here, and…and I’ll…I’ll-“  


“Oh no, you are coming with me!” Thorin bellowed just as Bilbo shoved the key into the tiny hole, “I have not come all this way just to leave you here with a…with a…”  


Somewhere, Aulë must be laughing at him, Thorin thought; that, or Smaug just had impeccable timing.  


Because just as Thorin was trying to finish his sentence, another roar blew out into the world and glass shattered into the tower in all directions, the beautiful stain glass window breaking into a million pieces, and Thorin and his hobbit ducked just in time to avoid most of the blast.  


And there, perched on the window’s ledge, stood a terrifying creature. Sixty feet tall, made of copper and silver and what was possibly mithril and rubies—if the glowing red eyes were any clue—was what Thorin had only heard of in legends:

A Dragon.

But this one was not of flesh and blood--it was a machine.

Smoke came from its noise as it hummed and whizzed, a mechanized monstrosity with a tail that stretched out the window and down the tower’s outer wall, while copper claws made the walls screech with pressure and cracks began to form.  


If Thorin had been a dwarfling, he’s sure he would have pissed himself.  


“…That…” He panted out as metal, dragon teeth glittered in the sunlight, and small flames could be seen inside the throat of the beast.  


“…I-Is Smaug.” Bilbo finished for him, “M-My guardian.”  


“O-Oh…” He gulped, “No one…No one mentioned _that_.”  


“I-I’m not surprised, really. Bit of a big brute he is, and-“  


Smaug opened his jaws and roared, wind billowing out from his thin, plated throat coiled with wires and tubes, and Bilbo took the time to scream, “RUN!” just as he turned the key into the hole and threw open the door to the outside, grabbing Thorin’s hand, and dragging him with him—just as Smaug fell out the way he came, screaming once more, pieces of the tower falling away to the world below.  


“COME ON!” Thorin yelled above the din as he found himself on a set of gilded stairs leading both down and upwards, and he gazed at Bilbo when the younger asked, “WHICH WAY?”  


And when another roar echoed out, blocking out all other sound, the dwarf could only point upwards towards the clouds; the choice, though not the best, seemed to be the only one when Smaug knocked away some stairs below them in its frenzy. He wasn’t sure there was any hope above, but Thorin knew they could figure it out from up there—if they even made it up there.  


The seconds flew by in blurs, as Bilbo grabbed his hand and ran; the hobbit was light on his feet, that was for sure, which was helpful, as the stairs began to fall away under their feet as Smaug flew himself into the tower with loud, gargantuan slamming motions, branches falling away with creaking metal and flittering flames.  


The stairs wrapped around branch after branch, and yet they kept running; only one time did Bilbo’s feet fail him, and Thorin acted quickly, grabbing the halfling and lifting him up into his arms.  


“Y-You don’t have to carry me!”  


“We are NOT arguing about this now!” Thorin shouted back at him, just as Smaug collided into the tower above them with a bang, the creature growling at them as Thorin fell back against the tower wall, holding onto the stairway for dear life as he stared into soulless, red eyes and dark claws that clung to gold.  


“O-Okay, yes, no arguing right now, good, good, let’s just k-keep moving-“  


Thorin didn’t need to be told twice, and shuffled on his feet as fast as he could—but it was not fast enough.  


For Smaug swung his tail onto the stairway, and the metal beneath the dwarf’s feet scattered away; Thorin did his best to try and grab the metal before him, but that too fell into the sky…  


And so did the duo on the tower.  


Blue and hazel eyes widened as the ground fell away and the sky welcomed them with open arms—and as Bilbo fell out of Thorin’s own into the air around him, screaming out of fear.  


“BILBO!”  


No, no, no, this couldn’t happen, not now, not just after this had all begun; he reached for the hobbit, who had tears in his eyes, who was falling faster, falling below him as Smaug was screaming in the distance, clinging to the tower—until the dragon started diving towards them.  


“THORIN!”  


The hobbit’s tears billowed up into the sky as the air whizzed past Thorin’s ears, as he reached, reached as best as he could, for the other but to no avail. Their fingers were close, so close, but he just _could not reach him_ …  


Thorin was tumbling, faster and faster, with nothing to hold on to and the ground was coming up to welcome them and he was certain neither of them would not survive the fall. How disappointing it was, to come so far, to achieve already a decent amount of success; how heartbreaking, to free the hobbit but only have him killed moments later…  


“I-I’m sorry-“ Thorin tried to whisper out as they fell and water— _water? WATER?_ —welcomed them below, but it went unheard.  


There was a crash, teal, opaque waves blowing out around Thorin as he hit the surface, and as Smaug dove into the water for a few mere moments…  


Until he cried out in pain, and vanished…  


And darkness overcame the dwarf, and he knew no more.

\---

_I’m coming home_

_I’m coming home_

_Tell the World I’m coming home_

_Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday_

_I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes_

_I’m coming home, I’m coming home_

_Tell the World I’m coming_

_Back where I belong_

_I’ve never felt so strong eh_

_Feeling like there’s nothing that I can’t try_

__

_This is my story, this is my song_

_If you ain't got the heart, don’t attempt to try this at home_

_It’s just a poem from a man once living wrong_

_Now I’m in the zone, tell the World I’m coming home_

_I’m coming home_

_I’m coming home_

_Tell the World I’m coming home_

_Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday_

_I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes_

_I’m coming home, I’m coming home_

_Tell the World I’m coming..._

_"Coming Home" -- J. Cole featuring Skylar Grey_

\----


End file.
